


the science of perspective

by asiren (meliorismo)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Established Relationship, M/M, Slice of Life, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-19 05:12:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15503061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meliorismo/pseuds/asiren
Summary: Living was the only way Sherlock knew how to love.





	the science of perspective

**Author's Note:**

> i wanted a sherlock who actually thought about john's feelings once in a while, and had the common sense of apologize & recognize that what he did with the suicide stunt was wrong. thats pretty much it

Sherlock woke up that morning the same way that he did every single one for seven months: which is to say, with John’s hair on his mouth. He didn’t know how that kept happening; John never grew out of that former-soldier style of haircut. It wasn’t very long or overly straight; therefore, there wasn’t a logical explanation.

The whole thing was just stupid.

“Good morning”, John muttered, still half-asleep. Sherlock gave him an awkward pat in the shoulder that could mean both _it’s still early, go back to sleep_ and _can we leave this bed already?_ John, though, wasn’t feeling very magnanimous, as he just closed his eyes and went on ignoring Sherlock completely.

He didn’t resent that. It was Sunday and John usually annoyed him into going to church. It didn’t make any sense, since Sherlock wasn’t Catholic and John just kind of were (the way people who only cared about Bible during Christmas and Easter can be). Still, it was like they would go straight to hell if they didn’t stand in front of a priest and listened to all the words like faithful Christians; Sherlock just gave up on complaining (loudly).

Sherlock didn’t believe in afterlife; it was because he was a scientist and only could be bothered to care about things that he could prove. Religion was funny, maybe, because it really motivated people, and Sherlock could _almost_ respect that. Unfortunately, he failed Anthropology in college and it was all there was to it.

“I can hear the wheels in your head turning non-stop”, John told him, quietly. Sherlock wanted to inform him that he had _terrible_ morning breath, but he didn’t. Mycroft always went on and on and on about compromise and good relationship manners. He wouldn’t be caught _dead_ thinking it, even less saying, but his brother could’ve a point.

Perhaps.

If you forced it very hard.

“I’m thinking about my latest experiment.”

“The one with the surprisingly large amount of mud?”

“Yes.” his tone was a very explicit _duh._

“The one that you promised wouldn’t end up in our fridge? The same way that you said about the others?”

“What is your point?”

“I saw you putting it in there.” John gave Sherlock’s hair a gentle tug, still looking tired — he wasn’t sleeping well lately. It could be because of their last case, about a murderer, or because Harriet was in rehab again.

“I already took it off.”

“It shouldn’t have been there in the first place.”

“Yes, but I already took it off. As in it isn’t in the fridge anymore.”

“Mud isn’t sanitary.”

“I took everything out of it before putting the mud there.”

“Did you just throw away our stuff?” John asked, with a startled squawk.

“Don’t be silly. I stored them in Mrs. Hudson’s freezer.”

“I can’t see her being happy with this arrangement of yours.”

“She wasn’t.” Sherlock said full of solid dignity. “That’s why I had to put everything back in our fridge, and store the mud elsewhere.”

“Which you must mean the weird freezer we have in the cellar.” his voice was long suffering. Sherlock just ignored him.

“Well, you’re awake at last. Can we leave now?”

“To go where? We’re naked.”

“Putting clothes on is a very fast endeavour, John. Your argument is full of holes.” a pause. “Like that revolting cheese you like to eat.”

John just sighed, looking like he was talking himself out of suffocating Sherlock with one of their fancy pillows. It didn’t matter, though, because Sherlock had accomplished his mission.

John was looking better already.

* * *

They had muffins for breakfast. They were store-bought, and tasted like death, but Sherlock couldn’t fry an egg to save his life and John wasn’t feeling like cooking. Although it wouldn’t make a difference if he were, because all that he knew how to do was burned pancakes. The firemen had to be called once to put out a smoking oven, sad witness of John’s failed attempt into making a lasagna. Sherlock ended up very deliberately throwing away the toasted pasta that John was _swearing on the Bible_ that was still edible.

It really, _really_ wasn’t.

“I think that we should get a dog.” John said, out of the blue. He calmly carried on eating his ugly muffin, the brown one that he honestly believed tasted better than the others. Sherlock didn’t have the heart to correct him. It’s better to believe in a lie than to face the hard truth of life.

“Why do you want to get a _pet?”_

“Dogs are the men’s best friend.”

“That’s a terrible excuse.”

“It’s the truth! You’re only scared that he’s going to eat your shoes or whatever, but they only do it when they’re puppies.”

“I don’t know why we are talking about it. Since when do you want a dog?”

“Yesterday.”

“Well, since you’ve been thinking about it for such a long time…”

“Oh, knock it off. We got that bird you wanted.”

“It died.”

“Because you’re a shitty bird owner. The dog would be mine, and I know how to look after other living beings.”

“Can we talk about it next week?”

“I’ll still want it then. I’m not a toddler.”

“Did you heard that what-is-her-name went back to her ex husband?” Sherlock asked, waving in the direction of the magazine laying open in the coffee table. A woman smiled motionless, staring right back at them with her pretty eyes.

It was a nice picture. Sherlock hoped that the ex wasn’t a dick.

“Whatever.” John answered him. “They’ll just break up again next week.”

* * *

Sherlock had a lot of opinions about everything. After the whole suicide stunt, though, he had to be really careful: the weirdest things would set John off, and he could either yell or cry, and not a single one of these alternatives were good ones. It was all about the compromising stuff. He wasn’t stupid; fucking up an entire relationship because he couldn’t avoid a topic? No, thank you. Even Sherlock Holmes knew when to stop.

Like. Usually.

So, every time that he thought about something that had the word “death” on it he would pick up his violin and think about the music. The weird sort of quiet that only being really involved with something can bring. How good choice it was to pretend that everything was always fine.

John wouldn’t mind to talk with him about _feelings._ It’s just that Sherlock wanted things to stay the same, forever, and he knew that he had to work out some issues. It wasn’t fair to act as if smoothing his characters flaws were someone else’s job.

(And that’s why he played the violin and thought about therapy).

Mycroft, obviously, would laugh himself into an early grave and Sherlock would finally be able to choose his coffin.

Win-win.

* * *

“You suck the joy out of everything!” Sherlock yelled at him, and Mrs. Hudson knocked at the ceiling of her home with a broom. Usually it would be enough to make John walk away, worried about being a _nice tenant_ , and a _nice person._ (Sherlock called bullshit. John just wasn’t ready to be labelled _difficult)._

[He had no idea how freedom would taste on his mouth].

“Oh, I’m sorry”, John said, his tone heavy with sarcasm. It sounded weird on his voice, like it didn’t really fit there and had to be dragged out kicking and screaming. John wasn’t used to passive-aggressive couple fight. It demanded some viciousness that he lacked. “I forgot that I have to go along with all your stunts! Because I live with you! Unfortunately!”

“Well, as you know you can _always leave—”_

“You really don’t want to go down this road”, John answered him, a little maniac. “You want me to go and pack? Because I will. Don’t think that I won’t.”

“It’s always the same: something nice happens—”

“—a triple homicide—”

“—and you have to go there and say _no, not interested,_ like we’ve the chance to work interesting stuff all the bloody time—”

“You want to know what always happens? This fight. Every afternoon like clockwork!”

“You always say how _wonderful_ and _fulfilling_ and _amazing_ it is to have a routine, like we’re a couple of five year olds—”

“Routine, Sherlock, normal people routine!”

“I’m bored out of my mind—”

“Like, can we not?” John murmured, angrily, rubbing his hand against his face. “I’m tired and you _know_ that I have to leave in twenty minutes to see Harry.”

“Uh?” Sherlock said, a little out of balance. “I didn’t know that.”

“I told you this morning. Why can’t you ever _listen to me?”_

Sherlock ignored him. “Are you going to take long?”

“No.” John said bluntly. “I’ll arrive there half an hour before the end of the visiting time.”

“Is she, uh,” he started, very awkward, “doing better?”

“Not really.”

“Oh.”

“Can I go now? When I get back, will I find you here doing whatever, instead of setting camp at the police station?”

“We can discuss it further later.” Sherlock answered, feeling magnanimous. “Say hello to Harriet for me.”

“You know you’re the only one who calls her by her full name.”

“I’m aware.”

“For some crazy reason she likes it, though.”

“Yes.” Sherlock answered him, patiently. “I’m also aware of that.”

John sighed, getting his coat and looking for his phone to call an Uber. “This discussion isn’t over.”

Sherlock smiled to himself, quietly pleased. “Oh, I would never dream of that.”

* * *

John liked to sleep in literal _pajamas_. Sherlock didn’t understand how that could’ve possibly worked while he was in the army. He thought this kind of stuff was like the way that John wore his hair, or how he always made the bed really neat. Things that he learned in the military and couldn’t grow out of.

Of course, Sherlock had never set foot on a warzone. All his knowledge was strictly theoretical.

“You’re staring.” John told him around his toothbrush. That was another thing about John that Sherlock found weird and disgusting, if a little endearing: he insisted on walking around the bedroom, talking to Sherlock or to someone over the phone, while brushing his teeth. He was so good at it that there was never toothpaste on the floor.

It was amazing.

“Your pajamas. There’s ducks on it.” Yellow, like one of those that children like to hold while taking a bath.

“It was a gift from my mom’s. I wore it before, I don’t know why you’re only bringing it up now.”

“I never noticed.”

John made a sound that could possibly be a snort. Sherlock couldn’t be sure, though, because he went back into the bathroom to rinse his mouth. “That’s dumb.” he said when he got back, going under the blankets and touching Sherlock with his cold feet.

“You’re freezing.” he complained. “Why are you always freezing?”

“It’s this apartment’s fucking heat. I keep telling you that we have to call someone to look at it.”

“I can do that.”

“Well, it’s just _calling,_ not exactly rocket science—”

“No.” Sherlock dismissed the possibility as if he was batting away an annoying fly. “I can fix the heat.”

“No.”

“It can’t be that difficult…”

“Forget it.”

“What—”

“I’m calling someone tomorrow to have a look at it.” John said, closing his eyes with finality. “Good night, Sherlock.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, muttering to himself about unreasonable people being incapable of recognizing a good plan when they see one. John smiled, a brief curled up of his lips, as if Sherlock didn’t know that he was awake.

John always snored when he was really sleeping.

“Good night, John”, he said, quietly. “See you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow,” John repeated. “Love you too.”

(sherlock tugged a small piece of john’s hair and then laughed.

love you, he thought. as always)


End file.
